


Reflections on the Water

by Zephyrfox



Series: Goldeneye Reflections [4]
Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Classic movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Danger, Fluff, Goldeneye AU, M/M, Timeshift - The Man from UNCLE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:25:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zephyrfox/pseuds/Zephyrfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two former Double Os meet UNCLE’s best agents. Will there be an alliance or death in their future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out life as a five paragraph epilogue on Golden Eyes and Loyal Terriers. I got some very good advice to leave it off, and now look at it! It's 10 chapters long. 
> 
> The Man from U.N.C.L.E. has been brought forward roughly 20 years to fit better with the mid-90s timeframe of Goldeneye.

James shivered and pulled his coat a little tighter. The wind and the lingering pre-dawn chill on the tarmac at the Kiev airport seemed to cut through every layer he had on, setting off every ache in his body. Alec stood nearby; he had noticed. He caught James’ eye and smirked before turning his attention to the business at hand. James huffed and turned his own attention back to carefully scanning the surrounding hangers for anything that might be suspicious.

They were overseeing the transfer of a crate to a chartered cargo plane. It was an operation that was both a necessary warning and a trap. Enemies lurked on all sides of the Janus Syndicate, trying to pick off the two leaders. Alec was hoping to draw out an especially determined pair that had been sniffing around. James had argued that the risks were too great for both of them to appear in the open like this. He still wasn’t over the guilt of seeing Alec killed in front of him and having to live for almost a decade with the knowledge that he had failed his partner. He would do anything to keep Alec safe now.

James had wanted — no, he had _ordered_ — Alec to stay behind. That hadn’t gone over well at all. He hadn’t thought that it would, but he had hoped. He’d been damn lucky to come out of that one needing only a few stitches. He also had some fond memories of the aftermath. He smiled to himself. They were sure to keep him warm on the hopefully rare occasions that he and Alec were needed in separate places.

So, trap. And a necessary warning. M had sent 002 in, with a capture-or-kill order. They had expected such a move; she couldn’t allow a Double O to go rogue on a whim, after all. Which raised the question — why had no one come after Alec years before when he wanted to return home and had refused to continue his mission?

There was another interesting fact to add to that. 002 had been surprised to discover that he was facing not just the former 007, but also the former 006. It was more evidence that Alec’s part of the Arkhangelsk mission hadn’t been official, that someone had been concealing the fact that Alec hadn’t died. Had been _using_ Alec for their own ends. Whoever it was might still be active in MI6. When they found out who had been behind it, they would go hunting. James clenched his fists, wishing his target was in front of him.

Alec turned to him with an inquiring eyebrow; he had seen the movement. James smiled slightly and shook his head, knowing Alec would understand: _it’s nothing_. Alec narrowed his eyes, obviously not buying it; his expression warned, _we’ll discuss this later_. Alec studied him for a moment longer, before turning once more to watch the cargo handlers; they had offloaded the crate from the truck and were moving it toward the plane.

The crate held a carefully modified coffin. 002 was inside; alive, but unconscious — as a courtesy to a former colleague. With the IV delivering sedatives and an oxygen mask, the Double O would stay that way for the entire flight to London and subsequent delivery to M. He was a warning to her and a threat to their unknown enemy in MI6.

Alec had gleefully pinned a note to 002’s chest when they put him in the coffin: _The next one gets sent home in pieces_.

 

~~~~

 

Napoleon Solo resisted the urge to duck behind the stacked crates he was sheltering behind. The taller of the two THRUSH leaders was scanning the buildings surrounding the tarmac again. He knew that any movement would draw the man’s eye.

UNCLE had sent him and his partner, Illya Kuryakin, to investigate rumors of a new THRUSH satrapy that was being established in the Ukraine. They had learned that a shipment of some kind would be sent out this morning from Zhuliany, Kiev’s international airport. They had arrived at the airport a few hours earlier so they could be in place to find out more. Now Napoleon was freezing his… assets… off, keeping watch.

It was almost enough to make him look forward to mandatory field retirement. That would mean that he would become Number One, Section One when Waverly retired — with all the paperwork that entailed. Still, maybe he would be able to talk his partner into doing it for him. He grinned to himself, imagining his irascible partner’s glare.

He shifted, sliding his gaze away from the two THRUSH. He relaxed when he spotted the familiar mop of bright blond hair among the cargo handlers. Illya’s native Ukrainian accent would help him blend in there.

The cargo had turned out to be a large, coffin-shaped crate. It was probably some new THRUSH super weapon, a vital part of some grand scheme to take over the world. No matter what it was, Napoleon was confident that his partner would figure it out. With degrees from the Sorbonne and Cambridge, and a doctorate in quantum mechanics, Illya could reverse engineer anything. That was why Illya was destined to take over the Labs and become Number One, Section Eight when he followed Napoleon out of the field. Which would hopefully be at the same time; Napoleon hated the thought that Illya might go out into the field partnered with someone else. Someone who couldn’t protect him the way Napoleon would.

Napoleon tensed as the cargo handlers began moving the crate onto the plane. Now was the time. Illya would hide in the cargo hold to investigate the crate after the plane took off, and then parachute away after setting explosives. Napoleon smirked. His partner did so love a big bang.

On the tarmac, the two THRUSH were still observing the transfer. The shorter man turned his scarred face toward the taller man again, this time nodding in reaction to something the other said. Napoleon wondered briefly what had caused the scarring, before dismissing it as unimportant. The scarred man turned back to the cargo handlers and barked out a sharp order. An uneasy feeling twisted Napoleon’s gut. The same one he got whenever an affair started going wrong and Illya might be in danger.

Sure enough, the other cargo handlers abruptly stopped what they were doing and grabbed Illya. _What is it about you, partner mine, that makes you a magnet for the bad guys?_ Napoleon watched anxiously as Illya attempted to get away but was forced to his knees in front of the two THRUSH leaders. Replacement cargo handlers came out of the hanger closest to the plane to finish loading the crate.

“Stay still.” Napoleon stiffened at the unexpected voice; he had no difficulty in understanding the order. Thanks to his partner, his Russian had improved from barely adequate to fluent — although Illya still took great enjoyment in complaining about his accent.

“Stand up, hands on your head.” This time, the order was reinforced by a nudge from the barrel of a rifle. Stupid. THRUSH were all alike… Napoleon spun as he rose, pushing with one hand to deflect the barrel and reaching for his opponent with the other.

Everything went black as pain exploded in his right temple.

 

~~~~

 

James felt a vicious curl of satisfaction as their captive’s partner was dragged out of hiding. Two more who wouldn’t be trying to kill Alec any time soon. Or ever, if he had his way. These two would be shot after he and Alec had wrung every bit of information from them.

Their blond captive’s eyes widened when he saw his partner, and he began to struggle again. The guards were able to keep him restrained, although with some difficulty. James made a mental note that it was time to give them some remedial training. He wouldn’t allow any lapse to endanger Alec.

_“Napoleon!”_

James raised an eyebrow, bemused, as he looked at Alec after the blond’s shout. “Are the French invading Russia again, my dear?”

Alec’s face softened for moment at the endearment. “If they are, they’re obviously not doing very well.” He turned back to their prisoner, smirking. “It didn’t do them any good last time, either.”

James grinned at Alec, and watched as the guards brought the brunet — Napoleon, apparently — over to kneel next to his partner.

Napoleon squinted groggily and slurred, “Illya, you all right?”

Worry flashed across the blond’s face and James frowned. Napoleon had butchered the pronunciation of the vowels in his partner’s name. He had spoken in English, and with an American accent. Why would Americans be after Janus?

A shout from one of the cargo handlers caught his attention. 002’s coffin was loaded and the plane was ready for take off. _Good_. He almost wanted to be there, to see M’s face, when the coffin was opened. This was tantamount to them declaring war on MI6.

“Good,” Alec said with satisfaction. “That’s it then. Time to get going.” He clapped his hands together heartily, and then gave the guards a brisk nod. Alec's eyes followed the guards as the prisoners were pulled to their feet before being hauled off to a nearby van.

Then Alec turned to James and leaned close, lips ghosting past his ear. “Let’s go get you warmed up, hmmm? I know you’re freezing.”

James shuddered, eyes drifting closed. The sensation of Alec’s warm breath seemed to travel directly from his ear to his cock. He licked his lips and opened his eyes, only to be caught in Alec’s green gaze. “What did you have in mind?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is puzzled by this nest of birds. Napoleon just wants his headache to go away.

Illya and Napoleon sat in the rear of the van, their hands cuffed behind them. They had been shoved into the van at the airport, with a pair of guards climbing in after them. Illya estimated that they had been driving for perhaps half an hour before the van pulled to a stop. He hid his concern as he watched Napoleon lurch and sway, off balance, at the change in motion.

The blow to Napoleon’s head had raised a fair sized lump; blood oozed sluggishly from a few cuts. Illya would need to keep an eye on him to determine how severe his concussion might be.

The doors opened, causing Napoleon to flinch as the bright sunlight hit his face. There were four guards standing in a semicircle around the open door, their rifles pointed at the two men. One of them gestured with his rifle’s barrel. “Out.”

Illya scooted out of the van first, to stand blinking in the sunlight next to one of the guards. Napoleon slowly followed. Illya scowled as one of the guards reached into the van, took hold of Napoleon’s arm and dragged him out. Napoleon lost his balance as he was pulled from the van and stumbled heavily against the guard, who shoved him back.

“Leave him alone,” Illya growled. He took a step forward, only to be jerked back when the guard next to him grabbed his arm. He glared at the guard, whose only response was to look singularly unimpressed.

The two guards that had been in the van joined the others as they formed a loose circle centered on Illya and Napoleon. One of the guards prodded the two forward.

Illya craned his head, attempting to survey the area as they were marched from the van towards a large building. His short stature made it difficult to see much beyond the line of taller guards.

They were at the rear of an old manor house, built perhaps in the 19th century. Two blocky extensions, with the look of the Soviet era, had been added to the side and rear, clashing with the manor’s classic lines. Illya caught a glimpse of some other buildings in the compound as they reached stairs that took them down to a basement entrance that opened on to a brightly lit hallway.

The guards ushered them down the hallway and into a large room. A tall, brown haired man stood there, waiting, with two more guards. His cold gray eyes flicked over Illya and Napoleon, pausing now and again; attempting to spot their weapons, no doubt.

Illya didn’t recognize him; he wasn’t either of the two bosses from the airport. He was probably high up in the organization — certainly higher than the guards. The man’s dark suit looked expensive, fitting his muscular body well, although it didn’t quite hide the guns he had holstered at his waist and ankle.

The group came to a halt in front of the man, and the guards moved smoothly into a new formation. Two of the guards retreated to separate walls to keep watch. Two more flanked Illya and Napoleon, while the rest remained standing behind them.

Illya frowned as he contemplated the oddity of efficient and well-trained THRUSH guards.

“Uncuff them. Search that one first.” The man said, indicating Napoleon. The two guards standing beside him moved toward Napoleon to begin their search.

Illya felt a guard behind him take his wrists and unlock the handcuffs. One of the guards behind Napoleon was doing the same. Illya slowly stretched his arms and rotated his wrists to ease some of the ache from being handcuffed. He refused to show the worry that gripped him when he looked to his left.

Napoleon swayed slightly before catching himself. His normally alert eyes were dull with pain.

“Give that to me,” the first guard ordered, gesturing at Napoleon’s coat.

Napoleon flinched, bringing his gaze up slowly as if the movement pained him. He frowned at the guard. “Wha’?” He blinked slowly and looked down before looking back up and trying again, “What?”

He was speaking in English, Illya realized in alarm. He hadn’t heard Napoleon say anything in Russian since they had split up for their respective tasks at the airport. Had the concussion just impaired Napoleon’s ability to speak in Russian? Or had it affected his understanding as well?

The guard showed no patience with the prisoner’s noncompliance. He raised a fist, preparing to strike.

Illya started forward. “Wait, no! He doesn’t understand. Let me —”

Everything seemed to happen at once. The guards shouted, blocking Illya with their rifles as he tried to force his way past them to Napoleon.

The guard that had been about to hit Napoleon stopped and turned, placing himself between Napoleon and the fray. The other nearby guards closed in on Napoleon to keep him from joining Illya’s fight.

Then the tall man waded in with a stentorian bellow. “Enough!” His men gave way before him. He reached out, his hand closing solidly around Illya’s upper arm.

Illya twisted in frustration, but couldn’t shake the man’s iron grip.

“More than your men can handle, are they, Bogdan?” A bland voice drawled the question from the door.

The guards stiffened to something approximating attention as the two THRUSH bosses from the airport strode into the room.

Apparently the tall man was Bogdan. He turned to the newcomers with a nod and a respectful, “Sir.” He smirked down at Illya and looked over at Napoleon. “Not at all.”

The two men had shed their heavy overcoats. The suits they wore underneath were expensive and bespoke. They fit the men so well that Illya almost missed the shoulder holsters that each man wore under their suit coats. That was another oddity – THRUSH leaders tended to leave the weaponry to their underlings. He wondered which of the two men was Janus; he hadn’t been able to discover that at the airport.

“Anyone would think they wanted to leave.” It was the same voice. The man who spoke was almost as tall as Bogdan, although there the resemblance ended. His dark hair was near black rather than Bogdan’s medium brown. His blue eyes shifted lazily between Illya and Napoleon, a predator ready to toy with its prey. Was he Janus?

The scar faced man was shorter than his partner, although still taller than both Illya and Napoleon. He raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired man. “What  _will_ people think of our hospitality?”

His partner smirked back and shrugged slightly. “We'll just have to make sure we give them a warm welcome.”

“I do believe you are correct.” The scarred man’s expression was less a grin than a baring of teeth that twisted his scarred cheek. His eyes were flat as he turned to Bogdan and snapped, “Finish searching them.”

Bogdan stiffened. “Yes, sir.” He shoved Illya at two of the guards. “Start with him instead.”

The guards caught Illya, and one of them began a very thorough search, starting by taking his coat. Illya could do nothing but stand there while the guard took his UNCLE Special and all three of his knives.

“Let me see that.” Dark Hair took the Special, looking curiously at the mounting holes for the various Special modifications. He ejected the magazine and frowned at the sleep darts. He nudged Scar, who shrugged at the Special and magazine, obviously not familiar with the weapon.

How did they not recognize it? Did they not know who they had captured? The Special had his initial on the grip. With that, and his description, they had to at least suspect. He and Napoleon were well known throughout THRUSH.

The guard waited respectfully for the two bosses to step back. Then he continued his search, handing everything to the man next to him. Illya’s watch as well as the explosives and timing device he had secreted in various pockets joined the growing pile that the second guard held. The guard even found the razor hidden in the seam of his jacket, and the garrote in his belt.

Illya’s communicator pen joined the pile held by the second guard, with no indication that his captors knew what it was. He hoped that his lock picks might go unnoticed, but the guard bent down and found their hiding place in his boot.

Then the guard reached under Illya’s shirt to run an impersonal hand around the elastic of his boxers. Illya gritted his teeth and endured; never in his life had he been more glad that he had resisted Napoleon’s teasing, innuendo-laced suggestion of going commando.

After the search was over, Illya looked towards Napoleon. He was still worryingly quiet, but Illya thought he might be coming out of his daze. Napoleon was holding himself more erect and seemed a bit more alert.

“You. How’s your head?”

The scarred man had spoken. He was staring at Napoleon, green eyes narrowed.

Napoleon frowned fuzzily back, but made no other response.

The two THRUSH looked at each other.

“He doesn’t understand us.” Scar’s voice was dismissive.

“We can always kill him if he doesn’t understand us. We’ll still have the other one to question.” Dark Hair had switched to English, eyeing Napoleon to see if his words had any impact.

Illya recognized the little line between Napoleon’s brows; his partner was going to be stubborn. Now was not the time. Illya put a warning tone in his voice. “Napoleon.”

Napoleon scowled. “I understand you.”

“He is capable of communicating after all.” Dark Hair’s English had the same upper class accent Illya remembered from his studies in Cambridge. “Bogdan, make sure you use English with them. We wouldn’t want any… misunderstandings.”

“Yes, sir,” Bogdan acknowledged the order in slightly accented English. Then he gestured at the guard to begin searching Napoleon.

The guard relieved Napoleon of his Special first and offered it to the bosses. Scar took it, comparing it to the one Dark Hair held. He pointed out the different initial on the grip to his partner.

After the guard was finished searching Napoleon, he stepped back.

Another guard had appeared, holding bundles of cloth. _Wonderful._ Illya undressed, then pulled on the replacement clothing. Napoleon was changing into the new clothes as well, but his concussion made him clumsy. Clumsier than he should have been — Illya spotted the explosive button that Napoleon tried to conceal from his shirt.

The guard had spotted it as well and took the button, depositing it on the pile of the rest of their belongings. Then the guard grabbed Illya’s hand, and took the buttons he had managed to pluck from his shirt.

Bogdan cleared his throat, diverting Scar’s and Dark Hair’s attention from their comparison of the two Specials. He gestured to the weaponry and gadgets. “They’ve been searched. This is their equipment.”

The scarred man spoke. “Put them in the cell, we’ll question them later. Oh, and send these to the lab for analysis.” Scar tossed the two magazines filled with sleep darts to Bogdan.

He had the same English accent as his partner. Bogdan’s accent, however, was distinctly Russian-flavored.

“Of course, sir.” Bogdan nodded to the guards, who responded immediately.

They shoved Illya and Napoleon in the direction of the cell in the corner.

There was no question of fighting back now. They were outnumbered, and Napoleon was injured. Illya entered the cell, turning to catch Napoleon, who stumbled a bit while following him.

It was a basic cell, with a single cot against one wall and a concrete wall about waist high that hid sanitary facilities against the other. A modicum of privacy. That was a nice touch, at least.

“Enjoy the accommodations.” Dark Hair was smirking again.

Illya glared back, pouring all his anger and frustration into his stare.

The man laughed, then leaned over to whisper something in his partner’s ear, who nodded back with a smirk. After a final glance at their captives, the two THRUSH leaders turned, almost as one, and stalked away with confident, almost feline grace.

Illya couldn’t see any other option at the moment but to wait. He had an injured partner, and no way out of the cell now that all of their tricks had been found. There would be an opportunity to escape later. There always was. _There had to be._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec gets a chance to warm James up, and then reflects on recent events.

They had kicked their blankets off, and the sweat on their bodies was drying in the cool air of the bedroom. Alec propped himself up on one elbow, feeling quite pleased with himself. He slid his hand down James’ chest and belly, stroking and toying with the strands of hair.

James practically radiated drowsy satisfaction as he arched into Alec's touch, his eyelids sliding slowly down to half-mast.

“So much for the deadly Double O,” Alec teased. “You're nothing but a giant cat, wanting to be petted.”

James hummed in agreement as he looked up, amusement dancing in his deep blue eyes. “And you can pet me all you want, my dear.”

“If I do, will you start purring?” Alec raised an eyebrow; his lips twitched as he held back the laughter bubbling up in his chest. He had missed this, just lazing in bed together.

James laughed and said, “You’ll have to try to find out.” He shifted a bit, getting comfortable, before closing his eyes with a contented sigh.

“You are a cat, one who has had his cream.” Alec snickered for a moment. Then, impulsively, he leaned down to kiss James.

Alec felt James smile as their lips met, before he began kissing back, soft and slow. Their mouths opened, letting their tongues out to glide gently against each other. It wasn’t an arousing kiss, just warm and welcoming. _Home._ Finally, Alec pulled away with a sigh and smiled down at James. He brushed the faint shadows under James’ eyes with a gentle finger. “You need to get more sleep, love.”

“If _some_ people weren’t keeping me awake, then maybe I _could_ fall asleep,” James said in mock complaint. His lopsided grin broke free when he was unable to keep a straight face.

Alec snorted in amusement. “All right, love. I’ll keep quiet. Come here.”

They rearranged themselves, fitting together with practiced ease. Alec drew the blankets back over them as they settled against the pillows. He put a protective arm around James and listened while James’ breathing evened out into sleep.

James had dragged Alec to bed earlier — _“You did say something about warming me up, didn’t you?”_ — after making sure that their odd prisoners were safely locked away under guard.

With the two potential assassins defanged, Alec knew that James needed the reassurance that Alec was safe after being in danger. James had always had a tendency to be overprotective, and now that they were together again he didn’t seem to give a damn about anything as long as he was sure that Alec was all right. Alec certainly didn’t mind the current result.  

Last night, though, James had tried to order him to stay behind for this morning’s outing. Alec had been angry at that, and countered with the suggestion that _James_ be the one to stay behind. He wasn’t overly fond of James being in unnecessary danger, either.

James, of course, had refused. Vehemently.

The resulting argument had turned into an epic brawl, fueled by their fear for each other’s safety. Fortunately, their guards knew enough not to interfere in the fight and had stayed far away. The fight only ended when Alec had realized that James’ arm was bleeding.

James had punched Alec in the jaw, and Alec had punched back, causing James to crash onto the coffee table. The coffee table broke under the impact, along with the half-empty glasses they had left there earlier. One of the glass shards had sliced deeply into James’ arm. The sight of that blood had shocked Alec out of his anger. James hadn’t noticed, and had still been raging as he came up swinging.

_“James. James!”  Alec ducked the flying fist, then grabbed James’ arm and twisted it back. He used his grip to force James around. Alec’s other arm snaked around James’ chest, locking him in place as he struggled._

_“You’re bleeding love, calm down,” Alec tried again. He was worried; there wasn’t a lot of blood yet, but it seemed to be flowing freely. How deep was the cut?_

_James kept struggling to free himself from the hold. Alec would have to let go soon, or risk doing some real damage to James’ shoulder._

_But James finally realized that Alec was no longer fighting, only attempting to keep him in one place. He stopped trying to get away and relaxed back into Alec’s hold, panting slightly._

_Alec sighed in relief, and then kissed James’ neck. It was right there, after all. He could feel the tension in the muscle under his lips ease. “You’re bleeding.” Then he turned his attention to the conveniently close ear. Alec smugly noted the hitch in James’ breath as he began nuzzling._

_James turned his head to give Alec better access to his ear. “You? Afraid of a little blood?” It might have been a sneer, had it not been a little breathless. James seemed a bit… distracted._

_Alec smiled, then nipped at James’ ear before releasing his hold. “Take a look at your arm.”_

_There was a moment of silence as James looked down. “Ah.”_

_Alec grabbed a pillow from the couch and offered it to James. “Here, put pressure on that so you stop leaking all over everything.”_

_They ended up in their bathroom. James had dragged a stool in to sit on while Alec retrieved their medical kit from under the sink. Alec had carefully cleaned and stitched the wound, glad to see that it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. After applying a bandage, he put the unused supplies back in the medical kit and placed what he had used in a separate bag for disposal._

_Alec had turned back to James, who was watching him warily; wondering, no doubt, if their argument would pick up where they left off. It wouldn’t. Alec was done fighting. He slid his hand around the back of James’ neck and squeezed lightly, bending to look into James’ eyes. He waited until the wariness there faded into curiosity, then he leaned closer, touching his forehead to James’. “We’re both going tomorrow. We’ll both be targets.”_

_James slumped in defeat and nodded, his forehead rubbing against Alec’s. “Bulletproof vests. And extra security.”_

_Alec straightened, smiling in agreement. “All right, love.” He shifted his hand to caress James’ cheek; “Come to bed.”_

Alec shifted a bit as his cock stirred at the memory of what happened after the fight, when they went to bed. He smiled as James muttered a sleepy protest at being disturbed. “Shh, love.” Alec gently brushed a lock of dark hair off James’ forehead.

James huffed and settled back against Alec, a warm weight against his chest.

Alec hoped that James would fall into a deeper sleep. They had no set timetable for interrogating their prisoners, and James was tired. He’d had nightmares of Arkhangelsk again. James never spoke of what he saw in those nightmares, and Alec wouldn’t ask.

He knew the nightmares lingered, long after James woke. James had admitted that Arkhangelsk had been on his mind, and what they were going to do to the traitor in MI6, when Alec had seen him clenching his fists earlier.

Now, though, there was plenty of time to lounge in bed — and perhaps go for round two after James woke up. Alec rubbed his cheek against James’ head, then settled back against the pillows as he closed his eyes.

How near they had come to never having this. Alec had been hurt and angry when he thought James had rejected him all those years ago. When he found out that his former lover was the agent looking for Janus, his first impulse had been to have James killed. But at Statue Park, seeing James for the first time in years, he had changed his mind. As angry as he was, he still loved James.

Instead, Alec had ordered one of his men to knock James out when he signaled. The conversation before he gave that signal had been odd; James had seemed truly shocked to see him alive. Alec hadn't realized how accurate that observation had been until later.

James really had thought he was dead, and had never gotten or answered any of the messages Alec had sent in those first few months after he went undercover. When he was still recovering from being injured at Arkhangelsk. The realization that James hadn’t rejected him, and still loved him — still wanted him, even with all his scars — had surprised him, leaving him feeling off balance. That James was willing to give up MI6 and stay with him had seemed almost unbelievable. But James had always thrown himself into things fully, without looking back. And now that James was back in his life, Alec would destroy anyone that tried to take James away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya ponders what he's seen so far, while James and Alec discuss what they're going to do with their prisoners.

Illya missed his warm clothes — especially the little surprises in the buttons and seams. Their loss would make escaping more difficult. The thin material of the shirts and trousers they had been given offered little protection in the cold cellar, and would be next to useless if he and Napoleon made it outside. Which, of course, was the point.

Napoleon, more vulnerable to the cold because of the concussion, had already started shivering as he drifted in and out of a restless sleep. Napoleon needed real rest, not to be locked in a cell, freezing. At least the cuts on his head had stopped bleeding.

The cold would slow them down when they were taken to be questioned. Illya’s current plan was hoping that the guards would make a mistake that would allow them to escape. There was no doubt in his mind that they would be moved; there was no room in the cell for an interrogation.

Napoleon stiffened in his arms, then began to moan, struggling weakly to get away.

“Shhh.” Illya adjusted his hold. “Hush now, Napasha. Be still.” There was no point in hiding the way he felt about Napoleon; they were lying on the same cot, wrapped around each other. Let the guards watching from the other side of the cell’s bars think what they would. He continued to croon soft nonsense as Napoleon quieted.

Napoleon went still as he looked up. “Illya?” Confusion in his warm brown eyes cleared when he recognized who held him. “Illyusha.” There was relief in his voice. “We need to get out of here.”

Illya was relieved, too. Napoleon sounded weak, but lucid; that improved their chances of getting away. “We’re in a cell with guards watching us closely. We will have to wait until they’re moving us. How do you feel?”

“It’s cold. My head hurts.”

“Yes, Napasha, I know. We’re just lucky your head is so hard. Please avoid getting hit there next time.” He stroked Napoleon’s hair, carefully avoiding the goose egg. “Try to rest now, before they come for us. It will help your head.”

For a moment, Illya thought the stubborn idiot might argue. Being UNCLE’s Chief Enforcement Agent didn’t always mean Napoleon made the best decisions. Then, shivering, Napoleon curled back into Illya’s side. _Good._

Illya tightened his arms and laid his head next to Napoleon’s on the cot, and tried to sort out what he had noticed so far. He still didn’t know the names of their THRUSH captors. Bogdan seemed to be a senior guard, or perhaps the third in command after the other two men. Illya couldn’t tell which of them might be Janus. Neither stood out as the obvious head of the Satrapy; they had both seemed to be in charge.

Dark Hair and Scar might or might not be Russian; both men appeared to be fluent and accentless in both of the languages they used. Their English had the upper-class sound of Received Pronunciation, although that could simply be the product of good teaching. He was sure, however, that Bogdan was Russian. The other guards had heavier Russian accents, but all of them used more-or-less understandable English after the dark haired man had ordered it.

The cargo handlers he had tried to question had only referred to the two men as ‘the bosses,’ or ‘Janus.’ Illya hadn’t suspected that the cargo handlers knew he was a plant. They had all seemed strangers to each other, called in for this one job, so he would be able to slip right in without raising suspicion.

Instead, it had been a set-up. The crate was genuinely being shipped, but the THRUSH leaders had realized it could be used it as a trap to lure in the UNCLE agents. He and Napoleon had walked right into it.

 

~~~~

 

Mid-afternoon sunlight was coming in through the windows by the time James and Alec finally left their bed and got dressed. James had put on a turtleneck — it would be chilly in the basement. No point in being uncomfortable while interrogating their prisoners.

The phone on their bedside table began ringing. Alec, being closer, reached over to pick up the handset.

Alec was still shirtless, having only gotten as far as pulling on his jeans. James stood there and watched, enjoying the play of muscles in Alec’s back as he answered the phone. Never one to pass up a good opportunity, James joined Alec by the table, and began stroking the bare skin on his back.

James paid little attention to Alec’s side of the phone conversation, absently noting that Alec wasn’t saying anything terribly interesting and didn’t sound like there was a problem. He skated his hands slowly up and down Alec’s sides, smiling when Alec inhaled sharply at the sensation.  

Alec leaned back into James’ embrace, bringing his hand up to stroke James’ hair, as James began nibbling his neck.

James made an irritated noise, low in his throat, when Alec leaned over slightly to hang up the phone.

“That was Raskova,” Alec said, straightening up.

“Oh?” James pulled away from Alec’s neck only long enough to ask, “What did our dear doctor want?”

Alec stiffened, grabbing a fistful of James’ hair and twisting it painfully. His eyes glittered with anger as he glared at James. “She had better _not_ be your ‘dear’ anything!”

James tugged slightly against Alec’s hold, enjoying the sting that the pull caused. He loved Alec's possessive side — it was equally matched by his own — but he hadn’t meant anything by what he had said. He dropped his hands to Alec’s waist, squeezing lightly. “No one but you.”

Raskova was a woman they would have pursued once, separately and together. He and Alec had enjoyed sharing their lovers in the past. But now? Other lovers were out of the question.

Alec looked slightly mollified. He released James’ hair, running his fingers along the sore spot he had caused, soothing it.

James shifted around, to better face Alec, and leaned down to brush a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Alec gasped, his eyes fluttering shut.

James continued, placing a trail of light, teasing kisses along Alec’s jaw. He loved the way Alec’s breath stuttered and caught at the sensations. He finally caught Alec’s lips in a deep kiss.

They kissed lazily, arms going around each other in a tight embrace. They traded control back and forth, their kiss growing more heated, until Alec pulled reluctantly away. “As much as I would rather take you back to bed, we do have some things that need to be done.”

James sighed. “You're right.” He was unable to resist running his hand down Alec's side one more time as he stepped back.

Alec caught James' hand, bringing it up to give his palm a kiss. “Raskova analyzed the darts. They held a sedative.”

“Not poison?” James frowned at that. He turned his hand, giving Alec's a squeeze. “Are they playing at being assassins? Who uses sedative darts as their ammunition?”

“I had you shot with one, remember.”

“Yes, but you wanted to kidnap…” James stopped. He snapped his eyes to Alec’s. “They wanted to capture us, not kill us. Why? Interrogation?” Part of him growled at that thought.

Alec shrugged. “Assassins wouldn’t want to take us alive, so probably not one of our… competitors. An agency? Not MI6, not with an American and a Russian working together. Besides, M would prefer to see you dead, no matter what orders she gave 002.” Alec’s smile was sardonic. “After he gives his report, she’ll want me dead as well. CIA, then?”

James considered that. “Could be. But then the question becomes, ‘What does the CIA want with us?’”

“And when we find out, what are we going to do with them?” Alec watched James carefully, waiting for his response.

James felt the weight of Alec’s gaze. While he was angry at their threat to Alec, a part of him was reluctant to kill fellow agents, even though he wasn’t an agent anymore. MI6 no longer held his loyalty. Still, the thought left him unsettled. And worse, Alec was eyeing him knowingly.

“Difficult, isn't it?” It was more a challenge than sympathy.

James sighed; Alec had gone through this when he broke with MI6, years ago. “I don’t like the idea of killing agents. I need to know why they’re here. If they want to hurt you,” he looked into Alec’s eyes, “I will have no problem killing them.”

“I know, love.” Alec stepped closer to James, almost touching him, chest to chest. “But you're right — it’s a question of finding out what they were after. Then we can decide what to do with them.”

James resisted the impulse to lean forward into Alec’s comforting warmth. “We can't exactly just let them go, either.”

“No.”

James blew out a frustrated breath; he couldn’t see a good solution. He pulled Alec into a loose embrace, looping his arms around Alec’s waist, and felt Alec’s arms come up to rest on his back. He kissed Alec’s shoulder, then rested his chin on the spot. “You need to finish getting dressed or I’ll take you back to bed.” He felt Alec’s smile against his cheek.

Alec kissed James’ ear and stepped away, out of the circle of his arms, and went to the dresser. He looked back as he opened a drawer to take out a shirt. “No point standing around speculating with no information. We can find out when we question them.”

“If they _are_ agents, they'll be difficult. Resistance to interrogation training,” James said idly. Most of his attention was on appreciating Alec pulling the shirt on.

“True.” Alec’s voice was muffled by the fabric.

A knock sounded at the door. James straightened, frowning at the unexpected sound, before looking back at Alec. “Shall I get that?”

Alec nodded as he pulled the shirt down and tucked it into his jeans. “Go ahead.”

James went to open the door. Bogdan stood there, with one of the new guards. The man had only been with their organization a few weeks.

“Sir, Rostov has some information about the prisoners.” Bogdan said, while the man at his side shifted nervously.

“What is it?” Alec asked, coming up next to James and nudging him aside to make room.

The guard hesitated, then began. “I recognized the prisoners. I used to work for another organization, with connections to a group —”

“Get to the point.” Alec’s voice was cold as he narrowed his eyes at the guard.

The guard gulped, wide-eyed, and talked faster.

 

~~~~

 

The cell door clanged open, startling Illya from his light doze and waking Napoleon. Four guards entered, rifles pointed at the two men on the cot. “Up!”

Illya started to get up, to offer himself for interrogation first. It would be better if the guards thought that Napoleon was still more affected by his injury than he actually was.

Evidently, he wasn’t moving fast enough. One of the guards stepped forward and grabbed his arm, jerking him to his feet. Illya grabbed the guard’s arm in turn, to pull him off balance.

One of the other guards stepped forward, rifle pointing directly at Napoleon.

“No! Leave him alone. I’ll come quietly.” Illya waited tensely, relaxing only when the guard lowered his rifle. He tensed again, gut clenching, when that guard reached down to drag Napoleon upright. _No._

Napoleon wavered slightly as he stood, head down. Illya hoped that the rest had helped him, and that he was just exaggerating the effects of the concussion. Two of the guards converged on him, each taking an arm, and started toward the door.

Alarmed, Illya took a step forward. Were they going to leave him in the cell? But the guard next to him moved forward at the same time, to escort him from the cell. _Good._ Illya was not looking forward to the interrogation to come, but at least he would be with Napoleon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Napoleon attempt to escape, and later they learn a little bit more about their enemy.

Illya scanned their surroundings as they walked along the corridor. There hadn’t been any THRUSH coveralls so far, and he hadn’t seen any bird logos. Normally THRUSH bigwigs branded everything surrounding them. He set that oddity at the back of his mind, along with the other strangeness he had noticed since their capture, to think about later.

Napoleon raised his head slightly as they turned a corner. When Illya glanced over, taking care not to alert the guards, Napoleon winked slowly. _What was he up to?_ Illya didn't have to wait long to find out. Napoleon faked a stumble into a guard, grabbing for his rifle. Illya immediately shoved back at his own guard.

The guards fought back with skill rather than brute strength, unlike most of THRUSH's men. One got in a good kick to Illya’s knee, leaving him gasping at the sudden pain. The guards overpowered him, and one jammed a pistol into his ribs, a stark warning to stop fighting.

Illya slumped his shoulders to indicate his surrender, instead of raising his hands. Both his arms were being held immobile by another guard. He surreptitiously tested his knee. It hurt, but he would be able to walk on it. Then he looked over at Napoleon. He was dismayed to see that Napoleon had been hit on the head. Again.

“Move.” The guards urged them forward, toward an elevator. One of the guards pressed the button, opening the doors.

Illya balked, afraid that he and Napoleon would be split up, but they were both pushed into the elevator.

It rose smoothly and soon came to a slow stop; the indicator lights showing they had risen two floors. Illya tightened his lips. That slight change in motion had knocked Napoleon off balance, and only the guards’ grips on his arms kept him upright.

The warmth that greeted them as they left the elevator was welcome, but Illya remained apprehensive. Why wasn’t their interrogation being conducted in the basement? That would be the logical place. This new anomaly, added to the others, was disturbing.

The guards escorted them a short distance down the hallway. Illya eyed the room they entered with a sinking feeling. The room held an examination table, a sink, and a cabinet with what appeared to be medical supplies. An interrogation with medical equipment promised to be very bad.

The two guards holding Napoleon let him go, leaving him listing in the middle of the room as they went to stand by the door, waiting. Illya’s two guards joined them after releasing his arms.

 _What’s going on?_ Illya was mystified. He took an experimental step towards Napoleon. The guards did nothing more than tense, so he continued walking — careful to hide his limp. He didn’t want them to know how badly he was injured.

“Are you all right, Napoleon?” Illya gently turned Napoleon’s chin to inspect the new damage.

“My head hurts like a bitch. And I’m dizzy again. Light hurts.” Napoleon closed his eyes in pain.

“Oh, Napasha. Don’t you ever listen? I told you to _avoid_ getting hit on the head.”

Napoleon opened his eyes and glared fuzzily at Illya. “Don’t make me laugh, partner mine. I have a headache.”

“Yes, Napoleon.” Illya ducked his head, hiding a small smile.

A noise at the door caused both men to look over. A dark-haired woman walked in, wearing a lab coat over her light gray pantsuit. Bogdan followed her.

Illya blinked. The third in command coming to interrogate them? Not Janus or his second? And who was the woman?

She was looking at the guards. “All of you. Out.”

The guards glanced uneasily at each other. One of them, apparently the leader, protested. “But, Doctor —”

The woman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You heard me. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” She turned towards Napoleon and Illya, giving them an assessing look.

Bogdan glared at the guards and jerked his head toward the door. The guards got out.

 _Interesting._ Had he been wrong about Bogdan being the third in command? Bogdan was following the woman’s lead, and from the way he was shadowing her, acting as her bodyguard. That wasn’t typical for someone in the THRUSH chain of command.

“So. You two are my patients.”

Her English was good, Illya noted, although flavored with a slight Russian accent. He positioned himself protectively in front of Napoleon, and watched the woman. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, and she had a no-nonsense look in her dark brown eyes. She was tall for a woman; his height, perhaps, or a shade taller. He found himself trying to stand straighter to compensate. “Patients?” He gave her a wary look.

“Yes. Orders from Janus. Who first? Your friend, I think? I’ve been told that he might have a concussion.”  She waited, eyebrow raised, as if she expected Illya to move aside. When he didn’t, she tapped the stethoscope around her neck and added, “I assure you, I _am_ a doctor.”

Illya didn’t move. “Janus. Which of your two bosses is he, anyway?”

She frowned. “Which one? Both of them. Now, are you done posturing? I would like to examine your friend.”

Bogdan had moved to stand, looming, behind her. He casually unbuttoned his suit coat, letting his hand hover over the pistol at his waist.

“Do we really have a choice?” Illya snarked. He wanted to push the boundaries of what might be allowed.

“Well, yes. Certainly.” The doctor shrugged. “But you won’t get any medical care if you choose against it.”

Illya considered that for a moment before he grudgingly moved aside, allowing her access to Napoleon. He would watch everything she did. He was sure he could bring her down before Bogdan got to him. He would not allow her to harm Napoleon.

“Thank you.” Warmth lit her eyes as she smiled. She went to the cabinet and took out a few items, placing them on a tray that she wheeled close to the examination table. “I am Doctor Raskova. Please sit.” She indicated the examination table, taking hold of Napoleon’s arm to help him.

Bogdan stepped into Illya’s path of when he attempted to follow the doctor, and ignored his attempts to move the other man out of his way. Illya glared up at him.

Dr. Raskova shook her head at them, and then she turned her attention back to Napoleon. She took a blood pressure cuff from the tray and put on his arm.

Perhaps this was a legitimate medical check. Why? They were prisoners, weren’t they? Illya watched closely as the doctor examined Napoleon. He gave Napoleon a warning look; if this _was_ a medical exam, he hoped that his partner would be a good patient for once. He was worried about Napoleon’s concussion, especially with a second head injury so soon after the first.

The glare seemed to work. Napoleon grimaced back, but acquiesced to the doctor’s examination. He winced when she checked the lump on his head, and flinched away, grumbling, when she shone the penlight in his eyes.

When she was done, she turned to face Illya, absently brushing a few flyaway strands of brown hair back behind her ear. “He is mildly hypothermic and has a concussion. It doesn’t seem too serious, but we will keep an eye on it. Now, your turn.”

Illya stared at her, startled. “No, I’m fine.”

Dr. Raskova advanced on him with a determined step. “Bogdan, hold him.”

Bogdan grinned, showing two rows of even, white teeth. “Yes, Dr. Raskova.” The tall man grabbed Illya before he could get away.

Illya struggled in Bogdan’s grip, but couldn’t budge it. He saw Napoleon watching but making no protest. _Traitor._  Illya submitted to the doctor’s examination with ill grace.

“Honestly, you men.” Dr. Raskova gave an exasperated sigh. “I have sufficient experience with agents to know that ‘fine’ means anything but.”

Illya frowned. She had experience with agents? Who? Maybe she meant before she began working for THRUSH.

“Sit here.” Dr. Raskova pointed to a chair near the exam bed, and waited until Illya sat. She muttered under her breath as she examined him; something about _idiots_ and _men_ and _doing their own stitches_ and _why couldn’t they call for medical help?_

Illya stoically endured her poking and prodding, and ignored her litany of complaints — although he filed them away to discuss later with Napoleon. He hid the pain he felt when she accidentally hit his knee as she moved around him.

“Well, you are mostly in good health; not quite as hypothermic as your friend. In that drawer you will find robes.” She gestured toward the cabinet. “Will you allow Bogdan to help your partner with a robe, or would you prefer to do it?”

Illya snapped a glare at her. “I’ll do it.”

Dr. Raskova smiled, as if she hadn’t expected a different answer. “Of course.” She nodded to Bogdan.

Bogdan looked from Napoleon to Illya, probably assessing their threat level, before he left the room.

Illya wondered what Bogdan’s leaving the room presaged as he opened the drawer. The pair of robes were folded neatly inside. He picked them both up and went to Napoleon.

“You could have said something,” he groused at Napoleon. “I’m fine. I didn’t need to be examined. Here, let’s get you up.”

“If I had to get examined, so did you. Put your robe on first. Then me.” There was a sheepish twist to Napoleon’s lips as he admitted, “I’m not sure I can stand without some help right now.”

That worried Illya. He pulled on a robe quickly, feeling warmer than he had since being taken prisoner. Then he helped Napoleon into the other one.

“That is why Bogdan is bringing in a wheelchair.” Dr. Raskova said, before leveling a glare at Napoleon, “Which you will sit in as we take you to the guest room.”

“Are we guests then?” Illya turned to face her, “Or are we prisoners? Can we leave if we want to?”

Dr. Raskova pursed her lips in annoyance. “You are prisoners, yes. But Janus has said to treat you as guests.”

Bogdan came back in, followed by a young man dressed as an orderly pushing a wheelchair, interrupting Illya’s retort. Illya gave Napoleon an assessing look as the orderly brought the wheelchair to a stop beside the exam table. Napoleon was in no shape to try to escape. If the doctor was correct, and they were being treated as guests, Napoleon would receive better treatment than if they went back to the cell. Illya knew when to play along for more time.

“All right.” He helped Napoleon into the wheelchair. He went to get behind the wheelchair so that he could push it, but Bogdan stood solidly in the way, refusing to move. Illya stepped back, glaring at the man.

The orderly began pushing the wheelchair to the door; Dr. Raskova beckoned to Illya to follow. As they went into the corridor, Bogdan moved up next to the wheelchair. Only two of the guards remained in the hallway; they fell in behind Illya and Dr. Raskova.

Illya thought that he might be able to get some information from the doctor. “Can you tell me what Janus’ names are?”

She considered for a moment. “I guess that it’s all right to tell you. They are James Bond and Alec Trevelyan.” She saw the next question forming on Illya’s face. “The taller one is Mr. Bond, the shorter one is Mr. Trevelyan.”

Politic of her to identify them by their relative height, rather than to say that it was Trevelyan with the scars. But it was good to have their names; when he and Napoleon got out of here, Section Four would be able to research them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Alec discuss their prisoners and deal with an unexpected situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jaimistoryteller for a quick beta.

James had instructed Bogdan to bring the prisoners to Raskova’s clinic, and then to the safe room. The prisoners would be easily contained there — the room had only one obvious entrance. The other was concealed. Neither he nor Alec wanted to be caught in a room they couldn't escape. He considered their two prisoners, and decided he’d have an extra guard put on the other side of the hidden door. He didn’t want to underestimate them.

After that, he and Alec had headed downstairs to their office, discussing what they had learned from their guard about UNCLE and THRUSH. He shook his head at the names. They seemed ridiculous.

James led the way through the double doors and turned left, towards their desks in the back of the suite. They had decided to let the prisoners wait, and talk to them after dinner. The front room of their office suite would be perfect. It had just the right blend of comfort and formality. They wanted answers, and getting their ‘guests’ cooperation might get those answers more easily than a standard interrogation.

“What do you think?” Alec asked, continuing their conversation as they sat down at their desks.

James turned to give his answer, and stiffened as he caught sight of Alec. A shadow cut across Alec’s body like a knife, obscuring the left side of his face. James sucked in a breath and gagged. The stench of blood and rot suddenly surrounded him. He stared wide-eyed at Alec, unable to tear his eyes away from Alec’s face. It had become the grotesque mask from his nightmares.

He was distantly aware that Alec was speaking, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. Screams and accusations were filling his ears, drowning everything else out.

The vision had him firmly in its grip, and he fell headlong into horror.

_The cloying smell of fresh blood over stomach churning rot clogged the back of his throat._

_Blood slowly dripped from the gaping bullet hole in the left side of Alec’s head. The right side was a melted ruin; the eye dead white, rolling crazily in its socket. This was wrong, it was all wrong. James wanted to scream in denial but his voice wouldn’t cooperate._

_“Do you see what you did? What you let happen?” Alec’s remaining eye speared James, pitiless green pinning him in place. “You killed me! This is your fault!”_

_James shook his head, his stomach churning with guilt. His mouth worked silently as he tried to speak. Finally he managed a whisper. “Alec, I didn’t know! I would have come back for you.”_

_A sneer twisted Alec’s face, pulling the ruined half into a grotesque rictus. “You could have saved me! Why didn’t you come back for me? You left me behind!”_

_The shadows surrounding them rustled and whispered. Dozens of half-heard voices rose and fell, echoing Alec’s litany of accusations._

James felt the blood drain from his face. He knew what was coming; Alec, screaming in agony from the flames that erupted next. _No._ He couldn’t bear to hear that sound again, couldn’t endure that smell. James shook his head, desperately fighting to pull his way back to reality.

Cold sweat beaded his skin by the time he managed to shake the vision off. He looked up, finally able to see the real Alec instead of the nightmarish version.

James’ stomach turned over at the line of shadow still so near to Alec’s face. He swallowed down bile, then whispered hoarsely, “Turn on your desk lamp.”

Alec’s worried look turned to a puzzled frown, but he obeyed. He kept his eyes locked on James as he leaned forward to flip the lamp’s switch.

The lamp’s bright glow banished the shadow. James sagged in relief, drinking in the sight of Alec’s face. Scarred, but not the horror of the nightmare. He saw Alec getting ready to ask him what had happened, and shook his head. “No. I won’t talk about it.”

“James…” Alec said, concerned. He sighed in resignation when James refused to say any more.

An uncomfortable silence reigned for a few minutes.

James forced himself to continue their earlier conversation, determined to pretend that nothing had happened. “I thought UNCLE was a myth. Maybe we can work something out instead of killing them.”

Alec started to speak, then stopped, considering. He sighed and shook his head, a crooked smile softening his pensive expression. “Dreamer.”

James quirked wry grin in response, and picked up a pen. He grimaced at the stack of papers on his desk. “I never realized that running a criminal organization required so much paperwork.”

Alec gave an exaggerated glance down at his own pile of paperwork as if shocked to see it, and then back to James, with fond amusement filling his eyes. “Did you think you left all that behind with MI6?”

James was grateful that Alec was letting his… episode… go. He shot Alec a mock glare, playing along. He waved his hand at the desk, “At least I never had to worry about all of this _stuff_ then. Just my reports.”

Alec’s laugh held a strained edge. “Paperwork makes the world go ‘round, James. Even criminal organizations.”

“Budgets, expense reports, inventories,” James grumbled, pushing down his guilty realization that he was the cause of Alec’s uneasiness. “Can’t we just hire someone?”

“Find me someone we can trust, and I’ll think about it.” Alec paused, a serious expression settling on his face. “We do need to know what’s going on. That means keeping on top of all the details.”

James heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’m a highly trained Double O agent. An assassin. Not a bloody accountant.” He frowned, fully aware that he was whining like a petulant 5-year-old. Since when was Alec the responsible one?

Alec rolled his eyes.

James tossed the pen onto the desk and watched it roll to the edge, where it teetered for a moment before falling out of sight. He slumped back in his chair and idly scratched at his arm.

“Leave your stitches alone, love.”

“They itch.”

“They’re healing.” Concern was back on Alec’s face as he considered James for a moment. “Do I need to distract you?”

James grinned in anticipation. Whatever Alec came up with would be sure to break him out of the bleak mood the flashback had left him in. “What did you have in mind?”

Alec stood up and walked over to James’ desk, leaning against it with one hip as James pushed his chair back to make room. “We do have that new shipment of sniper rifles that just came in. Shall we do a little target practise before dinner?”

James reached up, wrapping a hand behind Alec’s neck to pull him into a kiss. “You do have the best ideas,” he murmured against Alec’s lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Napoleon get a little time to themselves to discuss what they've learned so far.

Napoleon’s irritation, and his headache, grew. Bogdan led the way down the corridor, and the orderly pushing his wheelchair kept close to Bogdan’s heels. That left Illya and Dr. Raskova to fall further behind. He didn’t like not being able to see his partner while they were in enemy territory. He didn’t like that there were a pair of guards trailing behind that he couldn’t see.

The small group arrived at a room that appeared to be a cross between a hospital room and an expensive hotel suite. It also seemed to be designed with security in mind; it had no windows and only one other door. Judging by the bit of tile flooring that Napoleon could see, it led to a bathroom.

Napoleon peered around the room as the orderly wheeled him inside. Light shone from a fixture on the ceiling, as well as from several lamps around the room. A large bed occupied the far wall of the room, while a couch stood along the adjacent wall. It was easily big enough to sleep on, and looked comfortable. A table with a pair of armchairs and an ottoman were opposite the bed. There was a comfortable air that spoke of prior use, but was it a safe room or simply a plush prison cell?

Illya was glancing around the room warily while the orderly pushed the wheelchair to the bed. When the orderly attempted to get Napoleon up, Illya materialized at his elbow.

“I’ll do it.” He spoke sharply, glaring at the young man. Then Illya helped Napoleon into the bed.

Napoleon didn’t want to admit he needed the help. But his head swam and his nausea rose at the change in position, so he had no choice. He took several deep breaths to try and force it back as he settled against the headboard. Then he almost jumped when Illya gave him a surreptitious caress.

He narrowed his eyes, and Illya just blinked back innocently. Napoleon snorted. Illya and innocence had parted company many years before.

Dr. Raskova dismissed the orderly with the wheelchair. She turned to Bogdan. “Please check the room for any ‘extras’ that Janus might have hidden.”

Bogdan’s lips twitched into a smirk before his countenance smoothed to a professional blank, and he nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

Dr. Raskova stood, arms folded, watching him as he searched. After a moment, she turned to Napoleon and Illya. “I will have some food sent up for you.” She eyed Napoleon. “You will need some pain medication, but I will bring that up for you myself.”

“Why?” Illya spoke quickly, getting his question in before Napoleon could open his mouth.

One corner of Raskova’s mouth quirked up. “I have experience with agents and medication. Janus has stayed in this room before. That is why Bogdan is searching the room.”

“For hidden medication?” Illya asked.

“No. For hidden alcohol.”

Napoleon and Illya traded glances; Illya had a chagrined look. Napoleon had known him to escape from medical, drugged to the gills, only to dive into a bottle of anything alcoholic.

“I did say, gentlemen, that I have experience with agents and medication.” Raskova punctuated the reminder with a smirk.

Bogdan returned to the doctor, holding two bottles. “These were all that I found, Doctor.”

Dr. Raskova’s eyes narrowed as she tapped her foot.

Napoleon could see that she was weighing the decision whether to send Bogdan for another look around the room.

“That better be all of it,” Raskova said finally. Then she turned her attention back to Napoleon and Illya. “We’ll leave you to rest.”

Bogdan waited impassively for Dr. Raskova to leave the room before he locked gazes first with Illya, and then Napoleon. “I will return this evening to escort you to Janus. Until then, there are guards at the door. Try not to do anything stupid. You are Janus’ guests for now, but if you try to escape you will not like the result.” He waited, watching, until he was satisfied that his implied threat was received. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Illya put his finger to his lips. Napoleon nodded, feeling useless as Illya searched the room thoroughly, looking for listening devices and cameras. As he watched, he saw a limp that Illya attempted to conceal.

Anyone that didn’t know Illya as well as he did wouldn’t have noticed the limp. Napoleon suppressed a sigh. Illya must have been injured in the fight, and hadn’t wanted their ‘hosts’ to know that he had a weakness. At least Napoleon could be fairly confident that it wasn’t too bad. Raskova might be the enemy, but she had been thorough checking him over. That was why he hadn't objected when she said that Illya was next. The hours in the cold basement hadn’t helped either of them. Being a field agent was rough on the body, and they were both old enough that the cold aggravated their previous injuries. Hopefully the warmth of the upstairs rooms would help. Later, after this affair was over, he would bring up leaving the field to the younger agents. As much as he hated the idea, it was time.

When Illya was done searching the room, he checked the bed. Finally he stood and sighed. “Nothing.” His disgruntled glare around the room showed his frustration.

“Doesn’t mean that there’s nothing to find, Illyusha,” Napoleon teased, shaking off his melancholy thoughts. “Just that you didn’t find anything.” If his partner hadn’t found any bugs, he doubted they were any to find. Still, it would be best to act as if the bugs were there.

Illya stiffened, taking that as criticism, then shook his head with a rueful laugh. He walked over to the bed. “Budge up.”

Napoleon gave a long-suffering sigh and shifted cautiously towards the middle of the bed, wary of setting off either his head or his nausea. The bed dipped slightly as Illya got in beside him.

Illya leaned against Napoleon’s shoulder. “Raskova seems to be a competent physician.”

The off-hand comment threw Napoleon and he froze for a moment. He forced himself to take a breath and relax. He had to tamp down on a sudden, ridiculous, surge of jealousy. “Oh?”

Illya gave him a small, shy smile. “You seem to be feeling better.”

Napoleon huffed. “And you were getting quite cozy with her.” At Illya’s wounded look, he relented. “What did you find out from her?”

“She claimed that she had never heard of THRUSH.” Illya wriggled until he was more comfortably positioned against Napoleon. “Apparently Bond has only recently joined the organization. Trevelyan has been Janus for years, but as soon as Bond showed up he was called Janus as well. She let slip that there had been some other changes at the time, but I wasn’t able to find out anything more. I believe she realized that she was saying too much.”

“With those names, they’re probably as English as they sound. It’s odd that they’re here, if they aren’t THRUSH. Bond...” Napoleon hummed thoughtfully; the name was familiar somehow. Where had he heard it? “She said that she was familiar with agents. Did she say anything about how?”

“No. She was complaining about Bond and Trevelyan, I think, while she was examining me. Something about doing their own stitches. I’m not sure how that relates to her comment about agents.”

“But somehow, it’s connected. Agents. There’s something…”

Illya nodded, waiting patiently for Napoleon to finish his thought.

Napoleon forced his thoughts through the quagmire the headache made of his thoughts. Wait. That was it. “Felix! That’s how I know the name James Bond. Felix Leiter.”

“I don’t think I know _that_ name.”

Napoleon quirked a half-smile at Illya’s flat tone. “He’s CIA. He was comparing me to this Bond fellow, who is — or was — MI6. I wonder if this is the same James Bond.”

“If it is, is he undercover? Why use his real name?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know. What if he’s not undercover? He would be the agent that Raskova has experience with.” Napoleon smirked. “I wonder just how much ‘experience’ she has with him.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and winced as the motion pulled at the lump and torn skin on his head.

Illya rolled his eyes. “If Bond is an agent, is that the reason for our change in status from prisoners to ‘guests’? He clearly pronounced the quotes on the word. “They were planning to interrogate us. They didn’t know who we were. What changed?”

“They didn’t recognize our Specials, either. Maybe they aren’t THRUSH. Mr. Waverly’s informant could have been wrong. But they _are_ criminals.” Napoleon cocked his head at Illya, then regretted the motion as it triggered a wave of nausea and pain. He hated concussions. He rode it out with deep, slow breaths while Illya waited patiently. When he felt more in control, he asked, “Were you able to find out what was in the crate?”

Illya huffed, annoyed. “No. I didn’t have any time alone with it, and either none of the cargo handlers knew, or they refused to tell me.”

“So we have nothing but questions without answers.” Napoleon said, sourly.

“We could escape. Try to get more information before confronting them again.”

“A good idea, partner mine, except we wouldn’t get very far. You might; I’d just slow you down.” Napoleon considered the state of his head for a moment. The last episode hadn’t been quite as bad as earlier. “Maybe later tonight. My balance is still off right now.”

A worried look flashed across Illya’s face at that admission. “Then perhaps it’s better to stay for a while. We don’t seem to be in immediate danger, and tonight we may get some answers. Bogdan said he will be bringing us to Trevelyan and Bond later. It didn’t sound like a planned interrogation.” Illya’s eyes went unfocused as he stared into the distance, thinking. “I do wonder what changed.”

“I don’t know. As imprisonments go, this isn’t bad. At least this time we’re in a nice room, with a comfortable bed, not hanging from a pipe.” Napoleon aimed a suggestive look at Illya. “How should we pass the time until they come for us?”

Illya slapped lightly at Napoleon’s arm. “You are injured. And this room is almost certainly bugged, even if I couldn’t find the devices.”

Napoleon made a face; Illya was right. His comment had been a reflex. He knew that he wasn’t ready for anything strenuous. His headache had only just subsided to the tolerable side of intolerable.

“If you will not rest, we must find another way to pass the time.” Illya turned to their old standby, Botticelli. “A person whose name begins with B.”

“Niels Bohr. L.” Napoleon shot back.

“Wait — how do you know it was Bohr?”

Napoleon smiled at the suspicion in Illya’s voice. “You always pick a scientist, Illyusha.”

Illya grumbled under his breath. “It could have been another scientist, Napasha.”

“Was it?” Napoleon asked, bumping Illya’s shoulder with his own, relieved when his head only made a little complaint.

“No,” Illya said, reluctantly. “Oh, very well. Man or woman?”

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing Botticelli, interspersed with whispered discussions of their plans. They were interrupted a few times; first by Dr. Raskova’s return with the promised medication, and later by the orderly.

Napoleon had wondered if the orderly was spying on them in lieu of a listening device. The young man had been in and out of their room several times, bringing them lunch and dinner, and then some clothes to change into for their meeting with Janus. The new outfits fit acceptably, but lacked the helpful accessories that Illya ensured their usual clothing contained.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James, Alec, Illya, and Napoleon. In one room. This might be a recipe for disaster.

Musical chimes rang through the room as the mantel clock signaled the hour.

Alec broke their kiss with a sigh of regret. “They’ll be here soon.” It was too late to change their plans for more entertaining pursuits. He ducked down to steal a last kiss. Then, laughing, he evaded James’ playful attempt to pull him back for more.  

He stood and adjusted his trousers. Alec hoped that his erection wasn’t as visible as it felt as he headed to the bar. Their plan was to have a couple of drinks ready. They would subtly suggest an informal meeting, and perhaps throw off Solo’s and Kuryakin’s reactions.

He was pleased that James’ eyes no longer held the shadows left behind by that afternoon’s… episode. Alec had been surprised when James had gone still, a haunted look on his face, in their office. He had wondered what was wrong.

James had stared at him with such dread and horror.

Then he had realized. It had to be related to James’ nightmares of Arkhangelsk. Alec had tried to pull James back from wherever he’d gone inside his head, had called his name, urging him to come back. But James had stayed locked in the nightmarish vision that gripped him. Alec had been left feeling responsible, and with a helpless guilt for not being able to do more.

He had triggered the flashback. But without knowing how, he couldn’t prevent it from happening again.

At the bar, he took out a bottle and two glasses.

He hadn't been able to rouse James from the vision, and he had known better than to attempt to pull James out of it with a touch. It could be dangerous for someone to startle or surprise either of them — and James might not have realized that it was Alec standing there.

Alec’s alarm had grown when James started whispering. He hadn’t heard all of it, only a few of the words. _“I didn’t know!”_ He had felt sick at the naked pleading in James’ voice.

And then James had refused to discuss it, leaving Alec no choice but to go along. It had been difficult to act as if nothing had happened, joking and teasing about paperwork. There had been an unfamiliar strained air between them that left Alec wanting to scream. Instead, he had seized on the idea of a distraction.

They had spent the rest of the afternoon at the range, destroying targets as they attempted to outshoot each other.

The distraction had worked. The tension between them was gone as if it had never been. He didn't want to think about the possibility of James having another waking nightmare.

A knock on the door came as he opened the bottle.

“Right on time.” Alec flashed a grin at James, who had assumed a relaxed pose on the couch, with his feet on the coffee table.

James grinned back as his eyes slid slowly down Alec’s body and back up. Then he winked. “We’ll just have to finish this later.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it back into some semblance of order, before laying his arm along the back of the couch.

The door opened slowly; Bogdan was giving them plenty of warning. He stepped through, blocking the doorway with his body. He sought out Alec, to see if his bosses were ready. At Alec’s nod, Bogdan stepped back and waved Kuryakin and Solo through.

“Thank you, Bogdan,” James called from the couch. “We’ll let you know when we need you.”

Bogdan nodded. “Yes, sir.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to stay. Then, he gave his head a small shake and left. He pulled the door closed behind him with a definite click that indicated his feelings in the matter.

Earlier, Bogdan had voiced his disapproval of their plans to speak with Kuryakin and Solo alone. Alec understood; but he and James had decided that their prisoners were more likely to be at least somewhat cooperative without an obvious guard.

Alec observed the pair entering the room as he poured two glasses of scotch. They wore the polo neck shirts and jeans that he had ordered sent to them. Kuryakin looked quite comfortable with the outfit. Solo, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be accustomed to such informal attire. The man had just attempted to shoot his cuffs. The movement reminded him of James; Alec slanted a glance toward the couch. James caught his eye and winked again, this time a barely there twitch of the lid.

The other two men had divided their efforts. Solo studied him for a moment before looking over at James, while Kuryakin scanned the room, pausing here and there as something caught his attention. Solo had clearly overcome the worst effects of the concussion, although he still had a tense look around his eyes that indicated a headache. Impressive, given that the man had been struck in the head again during his and Kuryakin’s escape attempt.

Well. Time to play the genial host. “Welcome, gentlemen. Please, take a seat.” He waved toward the chairs that were pulled close to the couch.

Solo nodded to Kuryakin, just a slight dip of his chin, and led the way to the chairs.

Alec looked for signs of Kuryakin’s leg injury, and spotted the faint hitch in his gait. Raskova had reported that she hadn’t felt the injury to be too damaging, but it would perhaps slow him down. She had gone along with it when Kuryakin had covered up the injury during her examination. Alec approved; Raskova had good instincts for dealing with recalcitrant or dangerous patients. That injury may not become a factor, but any bit of intelligence about an opponent was good to have.

Alec stifled a snort of laughter at Solo’s narrowed eyes when Kuryakin brushed past to take the chair nearest the couch, putting himself between James and his partner. Alec was almost impressed that Solo managed to make sitting in the other chair look as if it was the seat he had intended to take all along.

James sat up as the two approached, dropping his feet to the floor. He smiled lazily at their guests.

Alec waited until they sat. “Would you care for a drink?” He let a trace of his grin show as both men stared at him silently. How very suspicious they were. This chat might turn out to be amusing after all. Sadly, it could never be as entertaining as being alone with James for the evening. “No? Very well.”

He closed the bottle and put it on the bar, then carried the two glasses to the couch. James took the one he offered with a smile of thanks. Alec set his own glass on the coffee table and settled onto the couch next to James, taking care to keep a socially appropriate distance between them.

Solo subtly straightened, his eyes narrowing; then he leaned forward. There was a clear note of challenge in his voice as he asked, “Why is one of MI6’s top agents working for a Russian mob?”

Kuryakin’s face became a blank mask, clearly not expecting Solo’s question.

James stiffened beside him; Alec reached over to brush his fingers along James’ thigh. Solo was fishing, trying to create a rift between them. Alec leaned back, projecting an air of amused confidence. “You know of Bond’s connection to MI6. Interesting.”

Solo looked almost disappointed at his mild reaction.

James had changed his focus to the amber liquid in his glass, turning it slowly to catch the light, before responding. He looked up to catch Solo’s eye. “How do you know that I’m with MI6?”

“Felix Leiter,” Solo said, looking from James to Alec.

 _Who?_ Alec frowned; he hadn’t heard that name before.

James smiled at Solo. “Ahhh, good old Felix.”

“Felix?” Alec’s voice was sharper than he intended.

James turned to him, brow furrowed at his reaction. “An old friend from the CIA.”

Jealousy punched him in the stomach, momentarily robbing him of breath. They had never been jealous of each other’s women lovers, but another man? He ground his teeth. He knew he had no right to jealousy for the time James thought he was dead, but that didn’t stop his feelings. For _nine_ _years,_ James had known people that he didn’t, had been friends with them, had spent time with them.

James put his glass on the coffee table and leaned close to Alec. He lowered his voice as he murmured, “Just a friend, my dear.”

Alec nodded stiffly, reading the truth in James’ eyes, and forced himself to relax. No one was trying to take James away, or to take his place in James’ life.

James settled back, brushing Alec’s shoulder while stretching his arm across the back of the couch again. He continued in a louder voice, “I’ve worked with him a few times over the years.”

Alec leaned into James’ touch, then turned back to Solo and Kuryakin. Best to keep Solo from pressing about MI6; time for a question of his own. “One of our guards identified you as UNCLE agents, but couldn’t tell us much. What _is_ UNCLE?”

That startled the two. Solo frowned. “You’re criminals working for THRUSH, but you don’t know about UNCLE?”

Alec shook his head. “We have nothing to do with THRUSH. We don’t know anything about them, either.” Rostov hadn’t been able to give them any meaningful information about either of the groups. He allowed a hint of threat to slip into his voice, “Answer my question.”

Solo’s hackles visibly went up, but Kuryakin spoke before Solo could say anything.

“All right. We’ll pretend you know nothing of UNCLE or THRUSH.” Kuryakin’s voice was sharp with annoyance. “The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement maintains order, protecting the world from organizations like THRUSH.”

“That might explain UNCLE,” James said, “but why does the world need to be protected from THRUSH?”

Kuryakin’s lips tightened. “THRUSH is an organization that is bent on taking over the world using wildly insane plans and doomsday weapons.”

After a moment of surprised silence, James snorted.

 _What?_ Alec looked at him with a puzzled frown, and blinked in surprise at James’ raised eyebrow. _Oh._ Alec felt his cheeks flush at the realization, heat spreading unevenly around his scars.

He turned back to Kuryakin and Solo, who were watching the exchange avidly. “We aren’t THRUSH, although from your description of them, we knew someone who might have been.”

“Who?” Kuryakin demanded.

“Oh, he’s quite dead.” James said lightly, eyes gleaming with vicious satisfaction.

Alec returned that look with a feral grin of his own, remembering. James had taken his time with General Ourumov.

“So he might have been THRUSH, but you’ve killed him.” Kuryakin didn’t seem to be intimidated by their apparent bloodthirsty glee. “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing working for a Russian mob, whatever the connection might be with THRUSH.”

Solo looked from Alec to James, studying them again. His eyes hardened as a sneer entered his voice. “You aren’t undercover. You’re a traitor. You’ve gone rogue.”

White noise roared in Alec’s ears, drowning out all other sound. He was up, moving, before he realized it. His vision tunneled down to a pinpoint focus, narrowing in on his prey. He pulled Solo up by the shirt, and then pivoted, slamming Solo into the nearby wall. He snarled into Solo’s face, “Shut up! You don’t know anything about it!”

_“Alec!”_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Alec kill Napoleon? Is there still a chance for these four to agree to work together?

A familiar voice tugged at his attention. _What?_ Alec shook his head, feeling as though he was just waking up, and tried to focus on what the voice wanted. The roaring in his ears slowly subsided as his chest heaved, drawing in deep, panting breaths.

He was looking directly into Solo’s grimacing face, holding Solo pressed against the wall. One of his hands was fisted in Solo’s shirt, bunching the material. His other hand was tightening inexorably around Solo’s throat. Alec watched with mild fascination as Solo’s skin turned purplish red around his fingers.

Solo was attempting to pry Alec’s fingers away from his throat.

“Alec?” James’ voice held a cautious, questioning note.

Alec turned his head. James was holding Kuryakin, struggling like a furious cat, in an iron grip.

The smell of scotch caught Alec’s attention next. He looked down. Light glinted off shards of glass that they lay in a spreading puddle. The coffee table was on its side, angled away from the couch and chairs. _Did I do that?_ He must have kicked the coffee table out of the way when he attacked Solo — whose hands were getting weaker as they plucked at Alec’s fingers.

James hissed something at Kuryakin that caused him to stop struggling. Then James released Kuryakin with a push toward Solo, and approached Alec. He reached out to grip Alec’s shoulder and gave it a shake. “Alec, look at me. Let him go.”

Alec’s eyes had drifted to watch Kuryakin come near; he stopped next to Solo, a pinched look on his face. Alec dragged his attention back to James and slowly opened his hand, letting go of Solo’s throat.

Kuryakin was right there to catch his partner as Solo doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath.

Alec glimpsed Bogdan out of the corner of his eye, standing alertly between the two chairs. When had Bogdan come back in? Alec blinked, trying to force his scattered thoughts into order. He felt embarrassed. Normally he had better control of his emotions. Why was he feeling so off-balance?

James tightened his grip on Alec’s shoulder, giving it another shake. “Alec?”

He managed a jerky nod, still a bit jittery from the adrenaline spike. He hadn’t had such a reaction to adrenaline in years. “Maybe we shouldn’t have coffee tables. This is the second one broken in two days.”

The corner of James’ mouth curled up at the attempt at humour. “We’ll just get rid of all the glasses, and drink straight from the bottle.”

Alec huffed out a small laugh. Then he looked over at Kuryakin; his skin crawled with the need to keep a potential threat in sight.

Kuryakin was lowering Solo into a chair under Bogdan’s watchful eye.

James turned to follow his gaze, and moved a step closer; a solid, reassuring warmth beside him.

Bogdan cleared his throat, and nearly jumped when four pairs of eyes gave him their undivided attention. His gray eyes darted back and forth between Alec and James, then settled on James. “Sir, do you want me to take the prisoners back to their room.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of what Bogdan intended to do.

James held up his hand to stop Bogdan, then he looked at Alec with a half-shrug.

That left the decision up to him. Alec took a deep breath. “No, let’s finish this now.”

Bogdan gave him a look that said he was insane, then stepped back to lean against the wall with crossed arms. It was clear that he was there to stay.

Alec kicked the coffee table further out of the way, and he and James sat down on the couch.

Kuryakin watched with narrowed eyes. Then he pulled his chair protectively closer to Solo and sat.

James began, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Don’t throw those accusations around until you know the circumstances.”

Kuryakin leaned forward, his blue eyes as cold as glaciers. “Tell us the circumstances, then.”

Alec exchanged a look with James, and nodded. Might as well tell them. Maybe that would get Solo and Kuryakin on their side. Tempers were running high now, but it would please James if they didn’t have to kill the pair.

James began speaking, starting with what had happened at Archangelsk. How someone in MI6 betrayed them.

Alec clenched his hands as James spoke. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He needed to pay more attention to Solo’s and Kuryakin’s reactions.

Kuryakin had gone quiet, his eyes shuttered, by the time James finished speaking. Solo was watching at his partner, a worried frown on his face.

Solo turned to them. “Could you give us a few minutes?”

Well now. That was interesting. And welcome — he and James could use a break from this little interview as well. “Certainly.” He looked at James and tilted his head toward the bar. They got up, giving the other two an illusion of privacy.

Bogdan, taking no more chances with their safety, moved slightly, so he could keep them and their prisoners within his line of sight.

Solo and Kuryakin were having a whispered argument from the sound of it. Alec wondered what they were discussing. Then he heard a thud and spun around, his hand twitching up toward his holster.

James had slammed his fist on the bar, and was grinding his teeth as he stared down at it.

Kuryakin and Solo looked up momentarily, but then continued their low voiced disagreement.

Bogdan met his eyes, raising an inquiring eyebrow. Alec shook his head and forced himself to relax. They were all on edge. He put his hand on James’ arm and waited.

James stiffened, his eyes snapping up.

“Are you all right?” Alec asked in an undertone, rubbing his thumb along James’ arm.

“Yes. No.” James blew out a breath. “That bastard stole so much time from us.”

“I know,” Alec soothed. “We’re almost ready to move against MI6. Soon. We’ll find out who betrayed us, and then we’ll destroy him. Even if we have to bring MI6 down as well.”

James smiled; then his gaze sharpened. “We need to find out how 002 found us.”

Alec nodded. 002 had gotten too close. It was sheer luck that they had heard the rumours that there was a Double O hunting them.

The tone of Solo and Kuryakin’s discussion changed, going from an argument to a quiet conversation. Shortly after that, Solo cleared his throat, getting their attention. “We’re, ah, we’re done, if you want to come back over.”

James nodded. “All right.” He led the way to the couch, taking a moment to run his hand along Alec’s hip, hiding the caress with his body.

When they sat down, Kuryakin began. “Napoleon was framed once, set up to appear to be a traitor at UNCLE. I didn’t believe it, so I helped him escape.”

Kuryakin paused, glancing at his partner with a little smile on his face. “If we had not found the true traitor, we would have gone on the run together, until we could identify who it was, and gather sufficient evidence against him.”

Solo took up the story. “Fortunately, we were able to find the traitor before that was necessary.”

“We do understand why you need to find the one who betrayed you. He might have betrayed others, and you don’t know his objective.” Kuryakin gave them an intent look. “What do you want from us?”

“You might understand us, but what good is that?” Alec shrugged. “We have no interest in UNCLE or THUSH. But we still can’t simply let you go.”

Solo closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his forehead. “You’re afraid that we’ll return and take your operation down.”

“You could try,” James shot back.

Kuryakin had turned a concerned look on Solo, but seemed reassured by the half smile he got in return. He looked back at Alec. “You aren’t THRUSH. We can report that. UNCLE’s interests are then best served by leaving you alone.”

“That’s an interesting offer.” Alec glanced at James. At his fractional nod, Alec continued, “But is it possible? What do you get out of this deal?”

“Can we trust them not to double cross us?” Bogdan’s voice cut across the room.

Alec turned to look at him. Bogdan was head of their security, and the nearest that he and James had to a second in command. It was a valid concern — they didn’t know Kuryakin and Solo. How could they tell if any bargains the two made would be kept?

Bogdan scowled at Kuryakin. “Well?”

Kuryakin responded with a scowl of his own. “As well as we can trust you.”

“If you cut your criminal ties, it might make this easier. Do something else. Start a new career, go traveling. Lay on a beach.” Solo ignored Kuryakin’s exasperated expression.

Alec snorted. Ridiculous. Solo had no idea what he was suggesting. Even if they did give up their ties to the syndicate, he and James were perfectly capable of creating havoc wherever they ended up — whether they meant to or not. He steadfastly ignored the annoying thought asking what they would do after they took their revenge on MI6.

James rolled his eyes. “Oh yes. I’ve always wanted to be a private investigator in Los Angeles.”

Bogdan barked out a short laugh, although he still eyed Kuryakin and Solo with suspicion. “Yes, you could be Sam Spade, boss.”

James flashed Bogdan a grin, enjoying the joke.

Alec shook his head fondly at their antics. At least the tension in the room was lower now.

“We’re serious,” Kuryakin insisted. “You will let us know if you encounter any THRUSH. Our report would be that you have no ties to THRUSH, and are just a criminal organization. Mr. Waverly will no doubt decide that the local authorities can deal with you, especially if that is what we recommend.”

“Why ‘especially’ if it’s what you recommend?” James asked.

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged a glance, then Kuryakin made a “go ahead” gesture.

“I’m the CEA — Chief Enforcement Agent — for UNCLE. I will be the one to take over when Waverly retires.”

Alec narrowed his eyes. “If criminal activity isn’t of interest to your organization, and your role is so important, why did you, specifically, come after us?”

“We’re an active team. Being the CEA doesn’t get me off of field rotation — although we’ll be leaving the field soon.” Solo ignored the sharp look Kuryakin sent him. “As for why we came here, there was a report that THRUSH was establishing a new Satrapy in the Ukraine, headed by an individual called Janus.”

Alec ignored the byplay, and frowned at that last bit of information. “Do you know who the report came from?”

Solo nodded, as if he expected the question. “It was one of Mr. Waverly’s British contacts. I’m, ah, I’m not certain if it was from someone in MI5 or MI6.”

Alec caught his breath in surprise. That contact was either the traitor they were looking for, or someone who knew the traitor. Alec saw that realization in James’ eyes, too. Definitely a lead they would need to track down.

“Could you find out who gave your Mr. Waverly the information?” James asked, watching Kuryakin and Solo intently.

Solo’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “Why would that be important to you?”

“It was someone in MI6 that betrayed us,” James reminded Solo. There was a note that promised mayhem in his voice when he continued. “We need to identify them.”

“Whoever passed that information along knew that James and I are Janus. They sent you two in to stop us,” Alec said.

“It’s also possible,” James pointed out, “that the traitor knew that we would capture you. If we had killed you, your organization would have retaliated. Probably with deadly force.”

Solo and Kuryakin traded glances.

Kuryakin nodded sharply. “All right. If we can find out the identity of Mr. Waverly’s contact, we will pass the information along. Whoever your traitor is, he might prove to be a threat to us as well as to you.”

James hummed thoughtfully. “Yes. That may well be true. We don’t know what the traitor’s motivation was. Or is, if he’s still at MI6.”

Solo cocked his head, peering at James. “And you suspect he still is.”

“Yes.” James’ answer was confident.

Alec nodded in agreement. Although, they had no way of knowing — yet — if that was true. But they would find out.

“Do we have a deal?”

Solo was pressing, but Alec thought he might have reason. He was starting to look rather more worn around the edges. The effects of the concussion, no doubt. And the near strangulation he had suffered at Alec’s hands hadn’t helped. Alec still felt some embarrassment over that.

Alec glanced from Bogdan — who still looked skeptical — to James, who nodded. Alec smiled at him and nodded back. Then he addressed Solo and Kuryakin. “Very well. We’ll accept your offer.”

“Good,” Solo said, with a small smile of satisfaction. “We’ll tell Waverly that this is just a criminal organization, and find out what we can about his contact.”

There was an impish light in James’ eyes. “And we’ll become amateur ornithologists, and let you know if we come across any traces of avian activity.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Alec spend some time together, and make plans for the future.

James lounged on the bed, naked and still damp from the shower. He watched the half-open door to the en suite with lazy interest, certain that he wouldn’t have long to wait. They had lost nine years because he hadn’t known that Alec was alive. He didn’t want to waste any more opportunities.

After a few minutes he heard the water turn off. Alec strolled out, wiping his face with a towel. James let his eyes roam appreciatively over Alec’s chest and shoulders, familiar warmth pooling low in his gut.  _ Mine! _

Alec tossed his towel towards the hamper and reached for the shirt hanging over the wardrobe door. His eyes swept the room, searching, as he pulled it on. He stopped, his brows drawing together in puzzlement, when he caught sight of James lying on the bed, still undressed. His expression cleared into a knowing smile at the proprietary way James was watching him.

He returned the look with a predatory grin and stalked towards the bed, his unbuttoned shirt fluttering around him. Alec leaned over James, one hand braced against the mattress, and dug the fingers of his other hand into James’ hair. His green-eyed gaze filled with heat as he locked eyes with James.

“Good morning,” Alec murmured, inches away from James’ mouth. Then he captured it in a rough, possessive kiss, all open mouth and tongue, demanding. 

James moaned, relaxing into the kiss, letting Alec have control.

Alec eased back for a moment, biting and sucking at James’ lower lip, before diving in again. Finally he pulled away, nuzzling against James’ nose. He released his grip on James’ hair, and gave James’ cheek a possessive stroke as he straightened.

James turned into the caress. Then, moved by a mischievous impulse, he nipped at Alec’s fingers, catching them between his teeth. He smiled around them at Alec’s surprised laugh. 

“I need those,” Alec said, sounding amused, as he tugged his fingers free. He gave James a mock glare, wiping the dampened fingers on his jeans, and then started to button his shirt. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“I’m going to watch you instead.” James settled back against the headboard with an unrepentant grin. He watched Alec dress for a few minutes, before getting bored. “What shall we do after we see our guests off today? Robbery, assassination, intimidation?”

“We go to Moscow. I want to question Zukovsky. Find out if he knows who set 002 on our trail.” Alec eyed James. “Are you going to shoot him again? Not that I care, of course; go right ahead. Just wait until after he tells us what he knows.” 

“Ah yes,” James drawled, “Valentin Dmitrovich. I only shot him the one time, and that was years ago.” 

“He shot at you a couple of times,” Alec reminded, a trace of outrage in his voice. He jerked his tie from the nearby dresser and put it around his neck, his hands moving with stiff, angry motions as he tied it into a Windsor knot.

James smiled, warmed by Alec’s reaction. The smile turned into a smirk as he remembered the meeting with Zukovsky, and he peered up at Alec through his eyelashes. “But that’s when he set me up to meet Janus.”

Alec’s shoulders lost their tenseness, a tender smile softening his face. “We’ll have to let him live, then.” He cupped James’ cheek and leaned over for another kiss. Just as it was turning heated he pulled back. “After we find out what we can from Zukovsky, I think it’s time we see what the hornet’s nest looks like now that we’ve stirred things up. M must have gotten our 002 surprise by now. Time to follow up on our declaration of war with a little field work.” 

“I like the way you think,” James said, reaching out to snag Alec’s tie. A sharp tug pulled Alec off balance, and he landed on top of James with a surprised huff. James slowly reached up to loosen and unknot Alec’s tie, never breaking eye contact. He pulled the tie from around Alec’s neck and tossed it aside.

Alec looked down at him, eyes dark with arousal. His tongue crept out, moistening his lips.

James grinned in anticipation and flipped them over. Then he resumed their kiss. They could talk about planning their operation against MI6 later. Now, he had nine years of lost opportunities that he wanted to make up for. He slid a hand into Alec’s shirt and began to unbutton it. First things first, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jaimistoryteller for helping beta!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at leavesdancing.tumblr.com


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